


saints are down

by industryprofessional



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Infidelity, M/M, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:54:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27430825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/industryprofessional/pseuds/industryprofessional
Summary: Trevor looks the same, somehow. It’s been nine years since Michael has seen him and it feels like walking straight into a memory, except with a few more wrinkles and a bit more male-pattern baldness. Trevor is wearing a denim jacket with homemade patches on the sleeves and has a safety pin through his left earlobe. His hair is long and unkempt, curling around the sides of his neck and sticking straight up above his forehead. Michael is so focused on him that he might as well be the only other person in the room. Trevor’s eyes go wide when he sees Michael, something between surprise and dismay flashing across his face.
Relationships: Michael De Santa/Trevor Philips
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	saints are down

**Author's Note:**

> *jumps into the fandom 7 years late* okay, get this: gta v…. but it’s reservoir dogs
> 
> los santos. 1988. a small group of criminals are planning to rob a jewelry store.
> 
> title is from the song by the cult.

————————

Michael looks up from his watery coffee as the bell above the door at the front of the diner jingles. The place is nearly empty save for himself and a small group of college students at the end of the bar, giggly and hopped up on too much caffeine. Not surprising considering that it’s one in the morning on a Tuesday. Even in Los Santos, there are a few places where one can find relative peace.

The man coming through the door heads right to Michael’s booth without even looking him in the eyes. He tries so hard not to be suspicious that he probably makes it look even worse than it is, as if he has some reason to be worried about being seen. As if a federal agent can’t prowl around the city in the lonely hours of the night without being questioned. Cops and criminals are the city’s flora and fauna, always observed but rarely disturbed. A never-ending supply just like the tourists and the movie stars. 

“Hey there, Davey,” Michael says as the man sits down across from him.

Dave keeps his mouth set in a firm, unamused line. “Hello, Michael. I see you’ve made yourself comfortable.”

Michael looks down at the doodles he had left all over his paper placemat. “I was bored, man. You said to meet you here at twelve-thirty.”

“I was caught up at the office,” Dave replies. “Believe it or not, you aren’t alone at the top of my priorities list.”

Michael feels uncomfortable speaking so casually in a situation like this. It must look, to someone unknowing, like they both agreed to this. Michael would rather step in a bin of thumbtacks than sit here with Dave, but it doesn’t mean a thing because here he is. There’s no gun to his head, no shackles tethering him to the booth. Just a middle-aged guy in a droopy suitcoat placing a battered manila folder onto the table.

“What’s that?” Michael asks, gesturing at the folder.

Dave opens the cover to reveal a small stack of mugshots and profile sheets like something straight out of _Starsky and Hutch_. “Information. Unverified. Could use your help to confirm some things.”

He pulls out one of the sheets, spinning it so Michael can read it right side up. It’s sparse, most of the notes scribbled in blue pen, but Michael recognizes the name immediately.

“Our main target in this bust is Lester Johnson. I assume you’re quite familiar with him,” Dave says.

There’s no mugshot, but Michael knows Lester’s face well. He’s known him since they were both in their early twenties and had already learned along the way that if the system does nothing but fuck you over then you might as well start fucking over the system. It was never like they truly enjoyed each other’s company, but mutually assured destruction holds a friendship together better than anything. Lester was the brains and Michael was the action and they could both ruin each other so badly that they never did. 

Now Michael is supposed to sell him out for his own freedom.

He laughs. “ _Johnson_? Come on, that was three or four aliases ago. I thought you guys were supposed to be on the ball. He goes by Crest, now, I’m pretty sure.”

“Is that his legal name? His real name?” Dave presses. 

“How the fuck am I supposed to know that?” Michael snaps. “You think he’s shown me his birth certificate? I don’t know what kind of relationship you imagine that we have, but he doesn’t _trust me_.”

Dave crosses his arms, mouth quirking into a slight frown. “He clearly has enough faith in you to hire you for jobs.”

“Well, someone’s gotta do the grunt work.”

Michael feels slimy. He never thought he’d be sitting face-to-face with one of the guys who want to take him down, especially acting so relatively civil. And he’s expected to keep this up for _weeks_? A tall order, even for someone who’s pretty used to lying.

“You need to be honest with us, you know,” Dave says. “I can’t have you withholding any information from me. This won’t work if that’s the case.”

Michael looks up at him, his gaze sharp. “Why are you pushing the fuckin’ issue? I told you I don’t know his full name. I don’t know where he is, I don’t know his favorite color, I’m not a mind reader. Get off my ass about it.”

Dave’s voice is icy when he replies. “I shouldn’t need to remind you that the only reason you’re not locked up is because of _this job_. And maybe you should go ahead and do what you’re told, without shouting at me, while you’re still useful.” 

Anger sears beneath Michael’s skin. He digs his fingernails into his thighs beneath the table to keep from breaking something, feeling scratchy denim bunch up under his grip. A streetlight flickers and goes out at the edge of the parking lot.

Michael takes a breath and feels like his mouth is full of daggers.

“Maybe I’ve decided that prison is better than being a fuckin’ snitch. I don’t think you get it, since your whole job revolves around being a lying, brown-nosing snake.”

Dave takes the insults like a parent of a disobedient child, partly offended but mainly intent on regaining control. He laces his fingers together atop the table. 

“It would be a life sentence,” he says, calculated. “We have enough to convict.”

Michael’s fingers itch to curl around the gun that isn’t there. “I didn’t fucking kill that guy, you _know_ it wasn’t me.”

“I recall what you said in your statement, Michael, thank you. But I don’t think the court much cares if it was you or if it was some idiot accomplice you hired and let take the fall who pulled the trigger. They want you off the streets, they have for a long time, and you’re lucky to even get this chance. So you can sacrifice your freedom for your little ‘honor code’ if you want to. I won’t lose a wink of sleep over it, and I certainly won’t miss being berated by you at these middle-of-the-night diner meetings. Just don’t waste any more of my time deciding.”

It’s quite the ultimatum. Michael sits back in his seat with his mouth set in a troubled frown, the urge to flip the table or storm out in a huff overcome by the realization that Dave is right. Michael twists his wedding ring around his finger. He imagines decades of only talking to Tracey and Jimmy through prison glass, hearing stories about talent shows and soccer games but never attending, telling Amanda to go ahead and shack up with whoever she’s been cheating on him with because it’s not like he can ever kiss her or hold her again. He’s been in prison before, obviously, but not since the kids were born. Not since he had anyone to disappoint.

Dave drums his fingers on the table impatiently. 

“Nobody finds Lester,” Michael says finally. His words act as a gesture of surrender. “So I’ll need to get him to find me.”

Dave purses his lips. “I assume that’s something you can pull off. The FIB will only be a hindrance to you, most likely, so you’ll have to do this part on your own.”

“Oh, yeah, Lester would sniff you guys out right away,” Michael replies. “Keep your hands clean for now if you want this to work.”

“Good. I’m glad we could get that sorted out.”

Dave begins to gather up the documents and folders, signaling that the meeting has reached its end. His coffee sits half-full at the edge of the table, and he shows no signs of picking up the bill. It’s unsurprising, to say the least. 

“Thanks for your cooperation,” Dave says before he walks away. 

“Get fucked,” Michael calls after him. He closes his eyes and imagines throwing his coffee cup at the back of Dave’s head.

————————

Michael pulls his Lincoln into the rear parking lot of the bar. Rain is coming down steadily and the only available parking spots are at the far end of the lot, up against a chain link fence that separates it from the lot of the neighboring fast food restaurant. Michael maneuvers his car around a large pothole and neatly between the white lines of the space between a beat-up pickup truck and a minivan.

He holds his hands above his head in a weak attempt to shelter himself from the rain as he sprints across the lot and into the alcove at the entrance. The bar seems to be pretty crowded, but there’s nobody else outside and Michael takes a moment alone to gather his wits. Inside, he’s supposed to be meeting with the rest of the crew for Lester’s job. He doesn’t know much except that there will be three of them and they have Lester’s approval which means they’re all pretty good. 

It had been easy enough to get Lester’s attention. Michael had asked around, made some noise with old acquaintances from his time in Susanville, brazen enough to get the job done but not so much that it seems suspicious. He’d arrived back at his apartment about a week later and found that a note had been slipped under the door. 

The note was written in familiar print. 

_Meet me under Del Perro Pier at noon. Destroy this note immediately.  
-You Know Who_

He was in business, then. Lester’s smart and hard to fool but Michael has a tried and true silver tongue, deceiver of the skeptical, a regular Charles Ponzi. He told a story of bounced checks and loan sharks and a desire to _get back in the game_. Most of it is true, which made it easier. 

Lester seemed to genuinely pity him. It made Michael feel like a real lowdown piece of shit, taking advantage of someone he called a friend for so long, but he already had that argument with himself. It has to be done. 

He pushes open the door and walks inside.

The bar is loud and it smells like none of its patrons have showered in the past week, sweat almost overpowering the sharp scent of liquor that has probably been spilled on every available surface. Michael desperately wishes that he felt out of place but he knows he fits right in like a foot into an old shoe. He can iron his dress shirts all he wants, he can drop too much on silk cufflinks and tie clips, but he’s indecipherable from any other sleazeball who came here to get laid. 

_Go to the table in the back under the signed photo of Donna Douglas_ , Lester had instructed. Planning down to the smallest detail, just like always. Michael spots it after a quick scan of the bar. He has to squeeze through throngs of people to reach it and gets something spilled on his sleeve for his trouble. 

When he finally walks up to the table, his heart drops to his feet. One of the guys is _way_ too familiar. 

Trevor looks the same, somehow. It’s been nine years since Michael has seen him and it feels like walking straight into a memory, except with a few more wrinkles and a bit more male-pattern baldness. Trevor is wearing a denim jacket with homemade patches on the sleeves and has a safety pin through his left earlobe. His hair is long and unkempt, curling around the sides of his neck and sticking straight up above his forehead. Michael is so focused on him that he might as well be the only other person in the room. Trevor’s eyes go wide when he sees Michael, something between surprise and dismay flashing across his face. 

“Are you Michael?” a voice asks from about two thousand miles away.

Michael tears his eyes away. “Huh?”

A young man, probably around twenty, with short, cropped hair is standing at the side of the table. He raises his eyebrows. 

“Oh shit, uh, yeah,” Michael manages. “Here for the meeting— er, the introductions, whatever.”

Trevor seems amused by his stumbling. He picks up his beer and takes a long sip without breaking eye contact.

“I’m Franklin,” the younger man says. “I was just heading to the bathroom, so you can go ahead and settle in with the guys.”

Michael nods stiffly and pulls out a chair. 

“I’m Brad,” the blond seated beside Trevor says. He has a round face and a smug smile that never seems to go away. It’s hard to retain new information when Michael’s entire brain is focused on Trevor, like a deafening siren going off and preventing him from hearing what anyone else is saying, but he at least gets his name. 

There’s a long, awkward pause. Brad’s gaze flicks between Michael and Trevor as he begins to sense something weird going on.

Trevor sticks out his hand across the table. “Trevor Phillips, at your service.”

Brad lets out a scandalized noise. “I thought they said no last names.”

Michael almost chimes in that he already knew, anyway, but that would kind of ruin the whole _we don’t know each other and never have_ thing that they’re apparently going for. If Brad is under the impression that they’re not even supposed to know each other’s full names, it’s definitely off-limits to have a history like theirs. 

“Or what?” Trevor asks. “You think I’m scared of any of you? I could take every one of you guys, easy, especially this fatass.”

He gestures to Michael and smirks at the indignation on his face. “See what I mean? A respectable man would have punched my lights out by now.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Michael snaps. “I’d rather not start a bar fight when we’re not supposed to be calling attention to ourselves.”

He doesn’t know what game Trevor’s playing. He’s clearly trying to piss Michael off, but for what? To make him look stupid, maybe, or to get some sort of revenge on him for what happened between them. Michael has half a mind to think that Trevor might just kill him once they leave the bar, or maybe any second now, knowing Trevor. He was never one to settle scores with logic and fairness. Heaven knows how much animosity could have built up over the years, how time and bitterness may have fostered a grudge. 

“Suit yourself,” Trevor says, smug. “Coward.”

He doesn’t seem angry. His words are pointed, meant to hurt, but at the same time he takes calm sips of his beer and sits back in his chair like everything is fine. 

Franklin returns from the bathroom before anything else can happen. The kid seems to have taken on a leadership role, immediately getting down to business once he sits down. The meeting is mostly preliminary, just meant to introduce the group and get a feel for how they interact, but Franklin asks the tough questions straight out of the gate. 

“So, any of you ever been to prison?”

————————

The rain has stopped by the time they step outside. The meeting went well, with all of them getting along as well as they could be expected to and no fights or serious disagreements breaking out. Working with criminals is volatile, dangerous, even, no matter how experienced and clever you are. Any time things go relatively according to plan is a victory.

Michael walks slowly to his car, letting Franklin and Brad walk on ahead until they’re out of earshot. If he’s going to discuss things with Trevor, it might as well be now; he doesn’t want to skate along on thin ice the whole time. 

As he expected, Trevor follows him and stops a few feet away from his car. It’s silent for a few moments as they wait to see who will break the dam first.

“What are you doing here?” Michael asks finally when it becomes clear that Trevor won’t talk first.

Trevor raises an eyebrow. “Doing a job, just like you.”

“No, I mean, _in Los Santos_ ,” Michael explains. “Last time I saw you was in North Yankton in what… ‘79? And now you show up here? How long have you been in the city?”

“I moved out here three years ago,” Trevor says. “It’s none of your business, really, but I was interested in… a business venture, let’s say. I was living up north of the city until recently.”

It’s… fishy. It feels like something is being left out, a hole in the story that needs filling. There's no way they could have just stumbled into each other in a city like Los Santos when they were both being pretty low-profile. 

“Are you…” 

Michael doesn’t know what to say. Trevor isn’t readily surrendering information and mostly seems content with making Michael uncomfortable. 

“How are you feeling?”

A stupid question, Michael berates himself. He’s never felt so lost in a conversation all his life. There’s something painful about losing your ability to talk to someone who was once close to you, stumbling when words used to come so easily. They have everything and nothing to talk about at once. Trevor is a stranger to him when he was once his closest friend. Michael feels like he's teetering on the edge of a cliff, not knowing which way to lean in order to save himself.

“Surprised,” Trevor replies. “And a little confused, ‘cause I thought you told me you were going straight and that’s why you screwed me over and then never spoke to me again.”

Michael snorts. “That’s not what happened.”

Trevor glares at him, half-hearted but still betraying a kind of hurt. “Agree to disagree, then, hotshot. How are _you_ feeling?”

Trevor won’t even pick a fight with him now. Whatever banter they had going earlier in the bar was at least _something_ , rather than this weird no-man’s land between them that produces nothing but stilted small talk. Apparently that was just for show.

“Also confused. I didn’t know you and Lester were familiar,” Michael says awkwardly. 

Funnily enough, the last time Michael spoke to Trevor was just months before he met Lester, but they never overlapped. He was hurt and bitter and kept Trevor’s name out of his mouth for almost a decade. He always assumed he'd never see him again, a thought that both comforted him and slowly destroyed him from the inside out. Regret is a terrible thing. Even conflicted, it eats away at you. 

“It’s a recent development,” Trevor replies. “I, uh… may have killed someone who was working for him. He tracked me down and I thought I’d have to off him, too, but he ended up asking for my help.”

Michael blinks in surprise. “Really?”

“ _Out of sheer desperation_ , he said,” Trevor admits, complete with air quotes, “because he’s real fuckin’ polite like that.”

Typical of Lester, really, which somehow eases Michael’s nerves a bit. They really do know each other, Lester hired Trevor by his own volition, it isn’t some secret plot against Michael’s life. It isn’t an implausible story, either. Trevor was always the shoot first, ask questions later type. 

“You got hitched, eh?” Trevor grabs Michael’s hand without hesitation and lifts it so he can study the ring. “What’s her name?”

Michael snatches his hand back. “Don’t think I’m supposed to tell you that.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Trevor finally sounds like he feels something besides mild annoyance. “After everything? You won’t even tell me that?”

Michael’s jaw drops. “ _After everything_ , my ass. As if you’re a fucking fountain of information right now. You’ve been in the city for three years doing God knows what... killing people, apparently, and you follow me to my car and act all mysterious and then you get upset that I won’t tell you personal details about my family?”

“Need I remind you that it’s your fault it’s been so long in the first place? This isn’t on me. We had a good fucking thing going and you ruined it, you’re the one who ran off.”

“Jesus Christ.” Michael scrubs his face with his hand, sighing. “I left because you were gonna get us killed. I told you to be more careful, and you didn’t listen, you kept getting more reckless. I honestly can’t believe you’re even standing in front of me right now with how you were acting back then.”

Trevor’s face pales slightly. His whole demeanor changes, really, to something less standoffish.

“So what are you doing back in the game, then, huh?”

“I was— I’m in a lot of debt, okay?” Michael confesses. “A fucking loan shark broke into my house, threatened me while my kids were asleep in the next room.”

“Oh.” Trevor crosses his arms. “And you couldn’t just… get a better job? Put in some extra hours at McDonald’s?”

His tone is impossible to read. The words seem mocking, but he doesn’t sound entirely disingenuous. Michael used to be good at figuring Trevor out. He used to know the punches were coming before they were thrown, how to preemptively sweet-talk both of them out of a dangerous situation. Now, he feels like he’s drowning.

He settles for the pathetic truth. 

“This is the only thing I’m good at, T.”

The nickname slips out entirely accidentally. He braces himself to be yelled at, or punched, but something actually softens in Trevor’s expression. 

They’re silent for a while. It’s not unpleasant, just sharing space after so long. A rat scurries along the edge of the building out of the corner of Michael’s eye. 

“You have kids?” Trevor asks. 

Michael resents the feeling that washes over him, even as he can’t pin it down. It’s something he shouldn’t feel, he knows that much, and he pushes it back behind an exaggerated but still genuine smile. 

“Yeah. Two.”

Trevor suddenly seems very interested in staring down at the slick, wet pavement. “Good for you, man. I never would have guessed.”

Michael doesn’t know what he means, but he also doesn’t feel like he can ask. He’s surprised, too, to be honest. He never saw himself as a father until Amanda first told him she was pregnant. He spent the first month having panic attacks in the bathroom, turning the sink on to cover up his shaky breaths, until he learned how much whisky numbed it away without making him lose control of himself. But the moment he first held Tracey was the moment he felt like it was worth it. 

This would be worth it, too. No matter what. 

Michael clears his throat. “I should go.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Trevor mumbles. He steps away as Michael pulls open his car door and gets in, rolling down the window as he does. The air between them is thick with tension but they don’t break it for a few moments. Cars honk and tires squeal on the road just beyond the fence. 

“I’ll see you around,” Trevor says finally.

Michael turns the key in the ignition. “Yeah. See you.”

He glances in the rearview mirror as he drives away. Trevor stands in the halo of the streetlight, watching Michael’s car, hands stuffed into his pockets. It makes a surprisingly forlorn picture. 

Michael turns on the radio and cranks it up so loud that it blasts everything right out of his head, guilt replaced with heavy bass and Def Leppard.

————————

“What’ll happen to the other guys?” Michael asks the next time he meets with Dave. “The other three that Lester hired, what happens to them when this is all over?”

Dave frowns. “They’ll be tried for whatever crimes they commit. If any of them have a record, they’ll probably be facing some major jail time. We’re getting all of our information from you, so I doubt there’ll be any plea deals. Why do you ask?”

Michael fidgets with the corner of his placemat, curling it up and then pushing it flat against the table. He doesn’t make eye contact. The Doobie Brothers’ _What a Fool Believes_ fills the silence, coming through the diner’s tinny speakers. 

“No reason. Just curious.”


End file.
